


King Alistair Theirin

by aureliu_s



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Prompt inspired, alistair becoming king, not much to see here, reluctantly so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 06:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14562558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: Alistair never wanted the crown; his royal blood, as he's always viewed it, is a curse. And it's come back to haunt him.





	King Alistair Theirin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I had this work up in a prompt dump, but I took the dump down and decided to repost this as its own work. :)

 

 

 

> prompt(s): things you said while holding my hands, things you said that made me feel like shit

### Chapter Text

The Inquisitor looked grave, pale, tired but restless all at the same time. Elyse Cousland was beside her, blonde hair pulled back into its usual ponytail, stray strands dancing in the breeze. He saw them first over Cullen’s shoulder, his story about the slaying of the archdemon dying on his lips. They both looked serious.

“Alistair?”  
He tried to capture Elyse’s hazel eyes, tried to make her look at him. She did not, but he had a feeling she could see him perfectly. The two of them climbed the stairs up towards the sparring ring, then turned and climbed those stairs. The footsteps of Skyhold seemed to slow; people were beginning to stop and look. Alistair, still glistening with sweat from his sparring against the Commander, both of them with chests bare and boots dirty.

  
Finally, finally, Elyse turned to him, and gestured for him to join her and the Inquisitor. A queasy feeling twisted in his stomach. Elyse was sweaty too; she and Alistair had been training before Inquisitor Trevelyan had come to talk to her. She was in pants and only her chest bindings, her face set and determined. Slowly, he shoved the tip of his sword into the ground and made his way to the stairs, taking them slowly with a hanging head.   
When he got there, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly and didn’t let go. His palms were shaky and his knees felt like bits of cloud, barely able to support him.  
“What’s going on?”  
But before she could answer, the Inquisitor spoke.  
“People of Skyhold--friends, followers, fighters. Today Ferelden has suffered a great loss.” Alistair swallowed thickly, his mouth dry. What had happened? Why was he up here? “Queen Anora has been assassinated.”  
Oh.

  
All at once the sun seemed too hot, the stone which he was standing on felt like waves beneath his feet. His shoulders felt heavy. Elyse’s light grip felt bone shattering. The people seemed to shift towards him as a whole.  
“Alistair Theirin, it was made known at the Landsmeet nearly nine years ago that you are the son of King Maric and the last heir of the Calenhad bloodline.” Sweat was dripping from his temples like rivers down his face, dropping off his jaw. No. No. He was supposed to be a Warden; he was supposed to stay with Elyse and they would be Wardens together.

  
“By default, you are to become the next ruler of Ferelden. The Landsmeet asks that you leave immediately for Denerim.” The Inquisitor turned to him and he was surprised to see that she looked apologetic; sorrowful, even. “For your coronation ceremony.”  
“Elyse,” he whispered, staring at the toes of his worn leather boots, “please say something.”  
She didn’t. Instead, she turned towards him and took his other hand, unraveling it from the weak fist it had been clenched into. She slid gracefully onto her knees in front of him, still holding his hands. “Don’t bow. Oh please don’t bow.”

  
The Inquisitor dropped onto one knee and dipped her head.  
From the base of stairs, there came a cry:  
“King Alistair Theirin!”  
He stared down at her hazel eyes, the dust of freckles over her nose and under her eyes, at the strands of blonde hair framing her cheeks. He looked past her to the Inquisitor, her bluish-purplish eyes, red, spiking warpaint that circled the top of one eye and the bottom of the other, her set frown.  
And all of a sudden, with one unified roar, the people echoed:  
“ _King Alistair Theirin!_ ”

And one, quiet woman with green eyes in front of him holding his hands murmured:

"King Alistair Theirin."


End file.
